Marie Howe writes about sadness . . .
Sorrow
by: Marie Howe
So now it has our complete attention, and we are made whole.
We take it into our hands like a rope, grateful and tethered,
freed from waiting for it to happen, It is here, precisely
as we imagined.
If the man has died, if the child’s illness has taken a sudden
turn, if the house has burned in the middle of the night
and in winter, there is at least a kind of stopping that will
pass for peace.
Now when we speak it is with great seriousness, and when
we touch it is with our own fingers, and when we listen
it is with our big eyes that have looked at a thing
and have not blinked.
There is no longer any reason to distrust us. When it leaves
it will leave like summer, and we will remember it as a break
in something that had seemed as unrelenting as coming rain
and we will be sorry to see it go.
There really is no way to prepare for sorrow, even if the loss is expected, as Howe points out. The sorrow might be coupled (guiltily) with relief and may “pass for peace,” but it is still “unrelenting as coming rain.” Sorrow just hangs on, like a bad cold. Weeks go by, and you’re still coughing and drinking NyQuil.
As most of my faithful disciples know, my son’s educational journey has not been easy. Five years ago, I wasn’t even sure he would make it to high school graduation. It seemed like every other day we were being called to the principal’s office. On his last day of eighth grade he had to be escorted out of the building by a teacher because another student had threatened to jump him after the final bell. Two weeks prior to that, I took a couple days off work because I was afraid he was going to hurt himself.
Tonight, my son stood in front of an auditorium full of almost 300 people and delivered a speech to his classmates and teachers, thanking them for putting up with his “dumb ass.” He opened himself up. I’ve never seen him be that vulnerable in public. And there I was, choking back sobs.
He did it.
I’m going to type that one more time.
He did it.
And I’m a complete mess, sitting on my couch at home, typing this post. Writing is the way I gain a little control over difficult emotions and situations. When my daughter graduated and drove off to her all-night party, I sat in the dark in my living room after everyone else had gone to bed, and I cried and wrote and cried some more. Tonight, my son is with a couple of his best friends, and, after I publish this blog post, I’m going to sit in the dark in my living room and cry and cry.
Saint Marty wrote this poem for his son today . . .
Wisdom for My Son as He Graduates High School
by: Martin Achatz
Yes, Darth Vader really is Luke’s dad, and,
yes, Han Solo shot Greedo first in Mos Eisley.
Diet Pepsi really is better than Diet Coke
because it’s sweeter, burns less when you swallow,
and that will be important when you get older,
realize you prefer Christmas to Halloween,
milk chocolate to bitter dark, when a nap
on a warm July afternoon is your definition
of perfection more than Michelangelo’s David
or the Mona Lisa’s curved lips. In this world,
bellies bloat with famine, schoolgirls die
in bombed classrooms, polar bears drown
because we’re running out of ice the way
Walmarts run out of air conditioners during Texas
heatwaves. There are things worth fighting for:
racial justice, the Oxford comma, gender
equity, leftover KFC cold from the fridge,
marriage equality because love is love is love is
really all your need, and I don’t care I used
the word love three times in this poem because
when this night is over—speeches spoken, songs sung,
marches marched, diplomas handed out—that’s all
you’re going to remember, the rest of us sitting
in our seats, waiting to hear your name called
as if for the first time, our hearts (yes,
I’m using the word hearts, too) blazing
like wildfires on the cusp of a tinder-dry summer.
Love you!❤️
ReplyDeleteSo proud of my nephew! (RA)
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